


Nine of Swords

by Frankincense and Dunmyrrh (rawrawrawr)



Series: The Querent [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5207672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrawrawr/pseuds/Frankincense%20and%20Dunmyrrh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Herald feels he owes a particular Tevinter mage an apology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine of Swords

There are few things worse than being cold, Dorian decides.

Perhaps freezing.  Which he just so happens to be doing.  Slowly freezing on a mountaintop in the ass-end of Thedas.  Slowly, he has begun to question his sanity.  First he leaves the all-too-reasonable climate of Tevinter for the miserably challenged weather of the south.  Then he decides to join the Inquisition after betraying the only man that had ever given him the sort of attention he had craved from his parents.  Which, of course, occurred after traveling through time with a Dalish elf surlier than the “romantic-at-heart” guardsmen in those trashy romance novels his mother so loved.

And here he was, attacked by a dragon and a would-be god, nothing but a threadbare quilt and a lonely fire to keep him warm.  Haven and half of the Inquisition’s armies were buried in the wake of an avalanche the Herald was foolish enough to set off.

 Well.  At least he had survived to be cold another day.

“If you sit any closer to that fire, you are liable to get burned.”  Dorian cranes his neck to spot a most familiar elf walking toward him.  It is unsurprising, given the circumstances he’s just emerged from, that the elf would favor one leg.  His left arm is curled carefully around his chest as though it might alleviate the sting of bruised ribs, brows knit in concentration.  There is no room here for humor, Dorian knows, and so it is safe to assume that the comment was more concerned than it was an attempt at light-spirited banter.

“I believe Mother Giselle is starting to rub off on you, Herald.  What are you doing up and about?”  Dorian cannot help but to grin, even as he feels the need to fret over the way the Herald of Andraste limps through the snow toward his little spot by the fireside.  _If there is one advantage to being the evil magister,_ he decides, _it’s having a campfire all to myself._   “I know I’m quite irresistible, but I would rather your keepers not give me a stern talking-to.”  He looks pointedly over at the three advisors gathered around the central thoroughfare that has become the Inquisition’s makeshift camp.

As the Herald looks down at him with a frustrated grimace, he appears decidedly…uncomfortable.  His arms are folded neatly behind his back, eyes darting from Dorian to anything in the immediate vicinity and then back again.  Occasionally his mouth works at the formation of words, but no noise escapes.  Dorian has half a mind to tease the elf over this, but the opportunity never comes.  “May I sit?”  And he gestures to the unoccupied spot on the upturned log next to Dorian.

It has been some time since the two have had a truly private conversation, but Dorian finds that the concept is not entirely unwelcome.  He finds himself nodding with a fond smile in his companion’s direction.  “Of course,” he provides graciously, standing to offer the Herald assistance – he is waved off with a roll of the elf’s eyes, stubborn fool that he is.  The Herald settles gingerly into a spot beside Dorian, giving a wide enough berth between them as would be polite for most acquaintances.

Lavellan frowns, pursing his lips and looking down at his off-color hands folded tightly in his lap.  With how unusually pale the elf has been left from his stroll through the blizzard (and isn’t that so appropriate for this one, _strolling through a blizzard_ , with so little as a flinch at the cold in true Lavellan fashion), the tan lines of his tattoos stand out more starkly.  There are lines following the insides of his fingers, streaks and swirls on the backs of his hands, tiny dots marking the hills of his knuckles.  Each mimic the stylized emblem of a vaguely avian shape emblazoned on his face, disturbed only by the lines of nicks and scars slashed across the owner’s face.  Dorian can never help but to wonder how far those designs go beneath the elf’s clothing.

“I wanted to apologize,” the Herald starts with a grimace, thick brows drawn into a characteristic scowl.  “You do not have to forgive me, but I felt you should know that I am sorry.  Sincerely so.”

Dorian cannot help the shock that sets in on his face, nor the chuckle that follows the initial reaction.  “You hobbled all the way over here, risked the wrath of that dreadful Mother, and ignored the explicit orders of your keepers to _apologize_ to _me_?”  He laughs again at the glare sent his way.  There’s something decided ridiculous about the whole situation – or perhaps he’s projecting.  Maker knows Dorian would have passed out by now, were it not for the unbearably cold mountain climate.  Not to mention the buzzing relief at having learned their Herald had not, in fact, perished.  He was finding it difficult to settle down despite his exhaustion, the possibilities of what could have been too haunting to dismiss for the welcome oblivion of sleep.

The Herald huffs, tone sour.  “I fail to see what is so humorous about this.”

“Well, it might help if you told me what exactly you were apologizing _for_ ,” Dorian suggests.  At the startled parting of the elf’s lips, he smirks.  Perhaps it’s a tad too smug for the situation, but he can’t help feeling decidedly proud of himself for flustering such a steadfast man like Lavellan.

Lavellan looks away once more, fingers somehow tightening despite their carefully interlocked state.  His eyes slide shut and he takes a deep breath through his nose, letting it out in a huff of air between his teeth, an apparition like smoke in the frigid mountain air.  When he opens his eyes again, he holds Dorian’s gaze with a remorsefulness that is as genuine as it is unexpected.  Not for the first time the human notices how stunning those eyes are, a clear green surrounding the warm brown halo of his pupils.  It is, however, the first time Dorian feels comfortable looking back at the other man.  Lavellan’s gaze is soft, and daresay warm, in the way he regards Dorian.

“I am sorry for my suspicions.  I know that I have been difficult with you, and far less than welcoming when you deserved anything but,” he explains.  “You have done nothing to deserve such treatment and it was not right of me to – to treat you so coldly.  Especially after everything you’ve done for the Inquisition.”  Quietly, he adds, “And for me.”

Dorian gives himself a moment to consider what the Herald of Andraste has said, gaze falling to the stitching on the awful quilt around his shoulders.  “It’s no matter,” he says dismissively, flashing a grin at the man sitting next to him.  “If I held a grudge against every person that treated me poorly I’d hate a good majority of Thedas.  Not wrongly, mind you.”

This does not seem to be an appropriately charming response, as he’d hoped.  “That hardly makes the situation better.”  Around them the wind whips, howling forlornly, further chill descending upon the small Inquisition encampment.  The Herald draws his arms tightly around himself, stiff posture replaced with hunched shoulders as he huddles in on himself.  “And it proves a point of mine,” he shivers near-violently before continuing, “You do not deserve such treatment.  From what you have shown me, you are just as – if not more so – trustworthy as anyone else I have surrounded myself with.”

“It’s not difficult to be more trustworthy than a self-confessed Qunari spy.”  Dorian smirks down at Lavellan, tightening his hold on the edges of his quilt as the wind picks up.

“You know what I mean,” the elf huffs.  “Perhaps we may not agree on everything, but that does not give me the excuse of disregarding your better qualities.”

Dorian peers at him, head tilted as he considers what the Herald has said.  The silence does not seem to outwardly discomfort his companion, though he’s noticed as of late that the Herald is guileful about his feelings.  He plays the impassive onlooker well, for the most part, and lives near-perfectly up to Varric’s nickname of “Stoic.”  And yet….

Lavellan looks only slightly shocked when Dorian opens one arm wide, exposing his poor body to the elements.  “Come now, huddle in.  That Mother hen of yours will surely cluck at me if you die of exposure after surviving a blasted avalanche.”

To his credit, the elf catches on quickly, shimmying further down the log until they are but a hair’s breadth away from one another.  Dorian immediately tosses the quilt over Lavellan’s shoulder, readjusting the edges so that the both of them are sheltered from the worst of the winds.  His companion shivers, but gives him the barest of smiles.  Just a twitch of the lips, really, but his whole face seems to relax in response, losing its severity.  “Ah, thank you.”

He grins in return, though it is coupled with a sigh.  “I believe I should be thanking _you_ ,” Dorian says.  “No one has ever apologized for giving me such a wide berth.  I’ve grown used to suspicion and disdain, but the fact that you apologized…well, I appreciate the sentiment.”  He lets himself smile genuinely at the elf.  “Apology accepted.”

Lavellan’s shoulders sag.  He looks supremely relieved as he lets out a short breath.  “You forgive so easily?”

Dorian thinks of the things a thousand times worse than anything Lavellan has ever said to him.   _Get out._   He thinks of the apologies he prayed for every night that never came.  _You are no son of mine._   He grins in spite of the sharpness that plagues his chest.  “Something tells me the Maker would smite me for snubbing Andraste’s Herald.”

The elf wrinkles his nose in obvious disgust.  “Please do not call me that,” he snaps, though it is considerably less cold than the tone he saves for the Inquisition’s enemies.

A sore spot, then.  He supposes that must be natural, what with the Dalish distaste for the Chantry.  Internally Dorian curses his carelessness.  “What would you have me call you, then?  Lavellan?”

“I think, with as much as we have been through, we can safely assume we are on a first-name basis.”  He tilts his chin up slightly as he holds Dorian’s gaze, something almost playful in the way his eyes glint.  Perhaps it’s just the firelight’s reflection.  “Call me Galenhel, if you would please.”

“Galenhel,” Dorian says, testing the name on his tongue.  It catches and rolls, flowing easily from the back of his throat to his teeth, the syllables bouncing playfully.  “A fine name.”

The Herald – Galenhel – smiles faintly at the praise.  “That is perhaps your worst attempt at flattery yet,” he says, mood considerably improved.

Dorian grins, one brow raised.  _Teasing_ , is he?  That was certainly a surprise.  “This, coming from _you_?  I wasn’t even aware you knew what flattery _was_!”

Apparently he was full of surprises tonight.  A quiet chuckle, pathetic with its obvious disuse, is startled out of Galenhel.  His smile is wide as he regards Dorian with slightly pink cheeks.  “I deserved that,” he replies with a shake of his head, arm brushing briefly against Dorian’s.  With their shared body heat, the quilt has become comfortably warm, though in Dorian’s estimation it could stand to be warmer.

Neither says anything for a while, simply enjoying the warmth and newly restored comfort in their shared company.  Dorian wonders if he should apologize, as well.  He can recall the argument clear as day, the frustration in the Herald’s posture and the deepened glower he kept trained on him.  Perhaps he should have known better than to tell an elf his opinions on slavery, but he was nothing if not honest.  It bothers him more than he would ever admit, thinking back on that look Lavellan gave him, the cold, shackled fury masking the deep disappointment.  _I may not know what it means to be a slave, but I do not need to in order to understand that you have benefitted off the exploitation of_ people _.  So much so that you are blinded to its realities, the very faces of the elves that served your wine and dressed you in the mornings.  Perhaps it is no different than poverty, but that does not make it any more acceptable._   Just the memory makes him feel a little ashamed.

Next to him, Galenhel takes a breath.  He likely wouldn’t have heard it, were he not so close to him, but as it were Dorian is aware of even such a minute sound like the Herald of Andraste breathing a little more sharply than usual.  Dorian turns to look at him curiously.  He does not move to look at the Tevinter, but no one else is around.  There is none other than Dorian that he could possibly address.  Well, unless he intended to talk to the fire, but that seems unlikely.

“When I was wandering.  In that blizzard,” he begins, eyes downcast and stony-faced.  Each sentence stops short of full, coming in halting deliveries of words picked not carefully, but with difficulty.  Dorian can hear it in the way his breath has gone ragged at the edges, just faintly.  “I wanted to give up.  Part of me knew that…that it would be easier.  Creators, I was so cold.”

Dorian swallows with some difficulty.  “Why didn’t you?”

Galenhel shrugs.  In the silence that follows he sighs, a great gust of breath sucked in greedily by the crackling fire.   Part of it is a chuckle so quiet that Dorian is not certain it ever existed.  “Do you know what I kept thinking?  ‘I never told him I was sorry.’”  He laughs audibly now, though it is barely a whisper to Dorian’s estimation.  “Trapped in a blizzard and all I could worry about was apologizing.”

“Why are you telling me this?”  Dorian does not intend for his tone to be accusatory, nor does his companion seem to take it as such.  If anything, Lavellan relaxes further, tension draining from his thin shoulders.  Like this, the elf is small and worn, daresay ordinary.  For the first time, Dorian sees how _tired_ he truly is.

“As…silly as it must seem,” Galenhel murmurs, tilting his head to meet Dorian’s mystified expression with a startlingly open gaze.  “You gave me a reason to keep going.  So thank you.”

Dorian ducks his head, unsure of how to respond to such sincerity.  He defaults to the only thing easier than going through the process of interpreting this newfound information now buzzing through his head.  “Yes, well.  Whatever it takes to keep you from dying.  You have an awful talent for that, you know?”

Lavellan’s brows raise upward, subdued mirth dancing with the firelight trapped in the glassy surface of his eyes.  He hums in a manner that would suggest he agrees with Dorian’s assessment.  And, if he looks closely enough, Dorian thinks he can spot the beginning of a smirk turning up the corners of the elf’s mouth.  It seems he wants to say something else – but the yawn that escapes him takes precedent, a sympathetic wince for the exacerbation of his bruised ribs following close on its heels.

“Perhaps we should get you to bed,” Dorian suggests.

Galenhel hums once again, settling carefully back into his place beside the other man.  “In just a moment.  Would you tell me about that book you were reading?  The one about entropic energy in spellcasting?”

Dorian smiles.

A moment is more akin to an hour, where Dorian thoroughly explains the theoretical framework of entropy as presented by the author.  Halfway through Galenhel falls asleep on Dorian’s shoulder.  He cannot bring himself to be angry, not even when Mother Giselle finds them and demands that the Herald be brought back to the tents, glowering all the way to the main camp as Dorian carries him to an open cot.  The elf stirs long enough to look between the two humans and whisper a soft, “Sorry,” for Dorian’s sake.

“That’s enough apologizing out of you,” he says, draping the quilt over the Herald’s cot.  “Now do us all a favor and sleep, will you?”

Not even the Mother’s well-intentioned shooing is enough to temper the delight that Lavellan’s sleepy smile kindles in his chest.  Dorian finds his way to an unoccupied tent and falls asleep with this illusion of warmth a strange but welcome comfort to him.


End file.
